


The Witcher Sings

by janemee



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Battle, Lutes, M/M, Nightmares, One Shot, Singing, ah it's sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:02:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24426958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janemee/pseuds/janemee
Summary: Some nights, Geralt drinks until he can’t stand.Some nights, he uses magic to sleep.Lately, he has been waking up screaming, bolting straight up in the dead of night with heavy breath and yells caught under his tongue.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 7
Kudos: 60





	The Witcher Sings

Some nights, Geralt drinks until he can’t stand. More than once, he has passed out on a bar or in the corner of a tavern. The shopkeepers wake him with gruffness or an expression of concern, but he just rouses himself and moves on. Once, he woke in a barn, hay in his clothes and hair, with a horse sniffing around his potions. He has made enemies in many towns, and more locals are scared of him than he cares to consider. He’s no longer the Butcher of Blaviken, he’s just Geralt, or sometimes ‘The Fallen Witcher’.

Some nights, Geralt uses potions to sleep. He consumes whatever the apothecary or mage in a town will give to him, sometimes both at the same time. He uses herbs more often after long hunts, when he allows himself to rent a room and bathe, spending a night as a person should, as he used to. Sometimes, on the nights he spends in a proper bed, not just the closest floor or the cold ground in a forest, he can remember the sweet touch of his husband, and the way the bard smelled in the early morning air.

Lately, Geralt has been waking up screaming, bolting straight up in the dead of night with heavy breath and yells caught under his tongue. Sometimes, he wakes up and continues screaming into the dark, not knowing how to escape the visions that plague him when he closes his eyes. He’s not sure how people around him would perceive the panicked noises that escape his throat as he tosses fitfully in his sleep, but it is as close to raw, all-consuming screams as witchers can muster. Some mornings, he tastes blood in his throat, either from straining his voice or biting harshly down on his tongue.

He is reliving the worst moment of his life, the same few seconds every time an attack comes.

He can hear Jaskier, small, scared, as he shivers in Geralt’s lap, clutching his bloody stomach.

“Gods, oh fuck, Geralt….” blood bubbles from his mouth, he’s so young, too young, _new_. Geralt feels useless, and his hands float above Jaskier’s head.

What can one do or say when their soulmate dies in their arms?

“I’m sorry.” He says the same thing every time, it's stupid, useless, Why. Why. Why. “I… love you.” a lousy supplement, a pitiful cry, and Geralt scoops his bard’s shoulders in his arms, holding him closer, harder. Why. Why. Why.

“My witcher, my heart,” It’s too sweet, so sweet, and Geralt takes a deep breath, smelling his hair. “I love you too.” Jaskier’s nimble fingers clutch a fistful of Geralt’s tunic, it's a broken embrace, too short but painfully long. All they have is this, and they both feel the slow trickle of blood between their torsos.

Geralt wants to respond, to comfort, to offer anything, but all he can muster is a low growl. His eyes search around them desperately, looking for any help, but nothing is there. They are alone. Instead of worrying himself with the long walk he will have to take without his love, he tries to stifle a sob, and focuses on remembering this moment exactly.

Sure, it’ll fucking hurt, but it's the last time they’ll ever be together.

So, he has the scene memorized, down to Jaskier’s last dazed smile and strained gasp. The moment he has to pry the stiff fingers open to release himself from their last touch, the way his body had sunk and twisted, a shell of what it had once been, and the long, long trip back to town, walking with an all too heavy bard over his shoulder, both bodies bloody, both glassy eyed.

The images resurrect themselves to torture the witcher every time he closes his eyes.

The funeral was awful for him, but he convinced himself that Jaskier would have liked it. Multitudes of women in colorful dresses showed up to mourn, sing, laugh. The throngs of adoring fans, fledgling bards, and lonely townsfolk drank themselves silly, only talking to swap raucous tales of their exploits, wildly inaccurate tales of what they thought he did in life.

It fucking hurt, but the ale was warm enough to remind Geralt of sleeping with his love.

He drank more than he ever had before, more than any human should, and probably more than a witcher should, and he decided that he wants to do something. As the world melted around him, he became more and more resolute in his idea. He surged to the front of the room suddenly, and grabbed Jaskier’s lute from where it stands near the casket, surrounded by flowers, he strapped the instrument to his back, and stalked off into the night. Away from the crowds, in the comfort of nature, he allowed himself to softly cradle the wood, run his fingers over each and every string, and tenderly pluck a few chords. If he hummed a note or two, he didn’t notice, but he did feel a strong sense of peace as he experimented, learning what sounded best and testing different finger placement. He pretended that Jaskier was teaching him, and could almost feel the soft hands against his rough, scarred ones, guiding them to better positions, helping them make sweeter noises.

“Tsk, tsk Witcher,” Geralt imagined the honey sweet voice of his love, “You have to be delicate with her, like a fair maiden, lift your wrists, and keep your finger loose. Relax at the joints, love, and hold her with purpose, strum carefully, and with intent, so she can sing.”

Ever since that night, when the screaming starts again, or when the world is simply too much, Geralt plays. The lute has become a permanent addition to his gear, with a special carrying case for travel and a holster on his back. He reaches for the lute more often than his sword now, as he has been trying to avoid violence in favor of the melodies he can create. He’s gotten quite good, and rumors fly around taverns that when he is alone, he sings. A few servants and errand boys claim that there’s an hour before sunrise when the notes from the lute combine with the husky tone of Geralt’s voice to form a song, and that he’s written many a sonnet for the bard, in languages no one can understand. Some entire towns are convinced they heard the songs one morning, but it is never confirmed.

They take to calling him ‘The Fallen Witcher’, because when he does take on a hunt, he is relentless. He lives like a man on fire now, unafraid of death or injury, would anything be so bad as to live without love? Would death really matter, in the end? He starts to take hunts from more dubious men, and even hires his services as a mercenary. Coin is coin, and life is long. One thing is non-negotiable, and prospective clients learn this quickly: the lute stays. No matter the state of his other arms, Geralt will hold on to the lute. It is his. It comes with him.

He doesn’t feel fallen, at least not always, but others seem to notice his new attitude more immediately than he does for himself, and readily contribute it to the loss of his bard. He doesn’t feel fallen, he just feels heavy, but he shudders to think about what Jaskier would say to him if he could speak. He knows on some level that he’s changed, but he won’t allow himself to feel guilty. Instead, in the meantime, in the dark, silent, or worrisome nights, he screams. When he can scream no more, he plays.

It goes on for years like this, he grows more haggard, and frequents more questionable taverns. His hair grows long, and he adds to his ever-growing collection of scars, but the lute stays. They have forgotten the bard now, Jaskier’s name is never spoken, even in the hushed reverent tones that used to follow him. They have forgotten the old refrain, and his ears have gone too long without hearing himself called a friend of humanity. They still call him ‘fallen’, but no one can seem to remember why. Children grow to ask their parents if the witcher has ever sung, and they are loath to answer.

Then, it happens, Geralt runs into battle too tired, too old, too hungry, and a monster catches him off guard. The Alghoul suddenly appears from behind a wall and clips Geralt in the chest, making him lose his balance and slinging him back against stone, arms and legs splayed out around him. He hears a crushing twang of the strings behind him as wood splinters and he knows with an uncommon certainty that the lute is broken. It’s gone. The last possession of his lost love, it’s gone. He sits for a minute, back against wood and cold stone, unable to process what had just happened. He puts his head down in his hands, then combs his fingers roughly through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes. At some point, unconsciously, he begins to laugh. It’s demented, it’s tortured, it’s fallen, but he's laughing. He looks again at the three Alghouls before him and his eyes glow yellow.

“You. You are all going to die.”

He’s unhinged, he’s ruthless, less of a human than he’s ever been, and when he emerges from the cave, he’s covered in gore. He doesn’t bother to bathe, stalking back towards the town to find a carpenter. When presented with the broken neck of the lute, the carpenter only shakes his head. Geralt knows that his hopes for reconstruction are lofty, but he stands too long, looking at the man across the counter, face severe and stony, hoping that intimidation will add skill to the carpenter, or wood to the lute.

He waits too long to buy a new one, and he has several attacks that he goes through alone. They may not know if the Fallen Witcher has ever sung, but they can hear his screams, broken pleas to an unforgiving sky, wailing for loss, for grief, for the death that his hands held.

When he finally gains another lute, it's custom, magical, beautiful. He commissions it from a talented artist, and spends many weeks making sure it caters to his particular specifications. It’s made for him, so his fingers can easily fit on the frets and pluck the strings without being clumsy. It’s made for him, a brilliant shiny black wood, with intricate carvings all around the ribs. It’s made for _them,_ in remembrance, in honor, in loving memory. The wolf carving is adorned with many, many dandelions, and the strings are a shimmering bronze, the same color as his hair. He has Yennefer charm it, making sure it will never break again, making sure it will sing sweetly for as many years as he has.

On the next quiet evening, Geralt walks into the tavern. They all notice his lute, but no one will mention it, they are still apprehensive, avoiding eye contact, whispering ‘fallen’, ‘witcher’, ‘screams’. With a rough nod to the young bard in the corner, he rouses the boy from his stool. He sits, takes a deep breath, and places his hands delicately on his instrument. Then, Geralt sings.

_**When a humble bard** _   
_**Graced a ride along** _

He feels his love near to him, he is flooded with the scent of honey, chamomile, the bard’s favorite cologne. He feels the soft lips of his husband in his ear, whispering the words that he long thought lost.

Some nights, he drinks until he can’t stand, some nights he still needs magic to stave off the grief, the horrible images of the things he has caused. Some nights, he still screams, some nights, it's all too much. But now more than ever, he sings. Geralt sings for himself, for others, and for his love, making sure their names are forever intertwined in their long scrolls of history. The world will not soon forget the Fallen Witcher and his bard.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a tumblr prompt by YappingJaskier. I'm sorry for the angst, but i've hit a wall on my other works and this prompt was the first actual inspiration I'd felt in a while. New updates to the others soon, I promise, but I also might keep doing one-shots. Requests are welcome!


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